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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695375">a sunday kind of love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwinds09/pseuds/fairwinds09'>fairwinds09</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Figure Skating RPF, Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Jazz Age, Prohibition, Speakeasies, chicago in the 20s, fondly known as the nightclub AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 06:00:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,833</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695375</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwinds09/pseuds/fairwinds09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Chicago, the 1920s, in a speakeasy. It's jazz and blues and moonshine and late nights, and a love story that wasn't supposed to happen but did anyway. </p>
<p>And, like all good love stories, it starts with a song.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Morgan Rielly/Tessa Virtue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a sunday kind of love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the one fondly dubbed "the nightclub AU."</p>
<p>This is also the one that prompted all my lovely betas to go "seriously, not <em>another</em> historical AU, don't you have enough WIPs," which, to be fair, I really did deserve. But I couldn't get this one out of my head, and so here we are. </p>
<p>I've done some preliminary research on Chicago in the 20s, and on the era of Prohibition in general, but I still have a lot more research to do if this is going to be anything close to historically accurate. If you know I messed up somewhere, please let me know (and link me to the relevant sources if you have them). Also, my knowledge of Chicago geography in the 20s is based on some <em>very</em> old maps that I have to turn my laptop upside down to read, so...for now, let's just roll with my rather spotty understanding of the Chicago streets some 100 years ago and I'll fix it later if I must. </p>
<p>I started this fic because of the music. It was one of the best musical eras the world has ever seen, and I can't wait to share the music with you. I'm going to try linking to the songs at the end of each chapter, because they are too good to be missed. </p>
<p>Thanks as always to my betas. Your encouragement, suggestions, and copyedits always make my work better. Thanks to M in particular for letting me bounce ideas off you at all hours of the day and night. ;)</p>
<p>The title is taken from Etta James's incredibly beautiful "Sunday Kind of Love." (We're all just gonna ignore that it was published in 1946.)</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>I want a Sunday kind of love<br/>A love to last past Saturday night<br/>And I'd like to know it's more than love at first sight<br/>And I want a Sunday kind of love<br/></p>
</blockquote>So...here's hoping you enjoy Tessa and Mo in a slightly different setting! As always, I would love to hear what you think. Thank you. :)
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s been working the Clover Leaf for three years when she shows up out of the blue, one cold night in early February. He’s seen a lot in three short years... jazz trumpeters out of Des Moines who could make music like he’d never heard before, a piano player from Los Angeles whose hands moved like lightning, a blues singer from Mississippi who sent chills down his spine.</p>
<p>But Morgan’s never seen anyone like <em>her</em>.</p>
<p>He’s at the door, like he almost always is, watching the crowd, on the alert for the telltale sound of the bell right above the entrance; that’s the signal that they’re about to get raided and it’s time to move everyone out, fast. He’s done raids more than a few times, and it’s always a panicked rush to get patrons out the door and the chorus girls and musicians out the back. He’s found himself in fisticuffs with the Chicago police more than once, been carted out in the back of a paddywagon a few times too. Keefe had him bailed out, of course, within a few hours. But it’s not something he cares to repeat if he doesn’t have to.</p>
<p>So, he’s listening for the alert with part of his brain, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble, occasionally giving John a head-jerk of recognition. John and Kerfoot are working the bar tonight, and Kerf, as usual, has a bevy of girls around him, holding their glasses high. Morgan has no idea how Kerf gets <em>that</em> many girls at one time. It hardly seems fair, but it must have something to do with having expressive hazel eyes and a sweet smile. That’s what he’s been told, at least, by women who apparently had some business knowing.</p>
<p>All is normal in his world until the beginning of the second set of the night, when the musicians change out and the stage goes dark except for a single spotlight. There’s a soft rustling in the darkness, and then a woman steps into the light.</p>
<p>He doesn’t recognise her. She’s slight, dark-haired, in a beaded evening gown. Her head stays bowed through the opening notes of the song, and then, slowly it comes up. She takes a deep breath and starts to sing.</p>
<p>
  <em>What’ll I do when you are far away</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And I am blue, what’ll I do?</em>
</p>
<p>Her voice is low, throaty, plaintive. He’s heard better singers in his time at the club, but he’s never heard anyone with this woman’s innate pathos. It’s like she’s singing from the depths of her soul, all the pain she’s ever felt bared to the world without a shred of pretense to hide it. She skipped the usual opening to the song, he notes in the back of his mind, just went straight to the first verse, and it’s a beautiful interpretation. She’s stripped the song down to its bones, and in its starkness she has found the wistful sorrow of a woman whose lover has left her alone and empty.<br/>He can’t look away.</p>
<p>
  <em>When I’m alone with only dreams of you</em>
  <br/>
  <em>That won’t come true</em>
  <br/>
  <em>What’ll I do?</em>
</p>
<p>The note vibrates in the air and then falls away, and she looks down again while the band plays. Morgan glances around to see if anyone’s paying attention to him. No one is, so he takes advantage of the opportunity to slip quietly along the wall until he’s closer to the stage. He can still keep an eye on the exit, if need be, but he wants to be closer to her. He wants to see her face.</p>
<p>
  <em>Do you remember a night filled with bliss?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>The moonlight was softly descending</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Your lips and my lips were tied with a kiss</em>
  <br/>
  <em>A kiss with an unhappy ending…</em>
</p>
<p>She lifts her head and starts singing again, the short bridge leading to the end of the song, and he stops dead, his back against the wall. She is <em>beautiful</em>, the kind of beautiful that can make a man’s breath catch in his chest, make him flush with a sudden swift rush of desire that he can neither fully control nor understand. She has a delicate face, with a little pointed chin and wide green eyes. Her brows and lashes are startlingly dark against her pale skin, and the redness of her lipstick is another slash of colour. Everything else is black and white... the black straps of her sleeveless dress, the soft whiteness of her throat vibrating as she sings, the pallor of her shoulders and arms, of her small hands rising from her sides as she reaches the end of the song, cupped in front of her as if she’s trying to hold onto something that is draining from her fingers. He is spellbound by her.</p>
<p>The last notes ring out.</p>
<p>
  <em>What'll I do when you are far away</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And I am blue, what'll I do?</em>
</p>
<p>Then it’s silence for a moment, the woman’s lovely face lowered again, her lashes shadowing the apples of her cheeks. The room, which has been nearly as spellbound as Morgan himself, erupts into applause, and the woman smiles just a little.</p>
<p>“Mo!” He jerks and turns just in time to see Mitch headed towards him, looking more puppyish than usual. He didn’t think that was possible. “What are you doing over here?”</p>
<p>Morgan tries to think fast, but he’s too distracted by the singer’s quick, uncomfortable smile as the crowd begins to shout “Another one! Another one!” with a few of the more notably drunk patrons yelling “Give us a smile, sweetheart!” She looks trapped, almost panicky, and he wants to apply a quick elbow to the mouth of one very tipsy, corpulent man in the corner who keeps leering at her suggestively.</p>
<p>“What?” he says to Mitch, not even looking at the kid. He needs to get this new singer off the stage, quick.</p>
<p>“I said, what are you doing over here?” Mitch repeats, just as the bandleader hops up onstage and takes the singer’s hand.</p>
<p>“Thank you, thank you,” Patrice says in his usual laconic fashion. Morgan can count on one hand the times he’s seen the man get excited about anything. “She is a gem, no? Tessa Virtue, coming to us from the bright lights of New York City. We thank you for giving her a warm Chicago welcome.”</p>
<p>The crowd has calmed a bit under Patrice’s influence. He has an almost hypnotic quality with them, an authority that works a bit like a snake charmer, something innate and incredibly powerful. Tessa has calmed too. She doesn’t look wide-eyed and panicky anymore, although she’s clutching Patch’s hand tightly. He turns and smiles at her, and the rest of the tension seems to leave her body. She smiles back, a bit tentatively, and he murmurs something under the hum from the crowd. Her smile widens.</p>
<p>“We want another song!” a man’s voice yells from the back of the house. “A peppy one this time. Maybe give us a little dance too, eh, honey?”</p>
<p>Tessa’s eyes go very wide, and Patch steps in swiftly.</p>
<p>“Ah, one thing at a time, my friend!” he says in a tone that neatly bridges the gap between genial and menacing. “She is new here, and she will be back tomorrow night. An introduction only tonight, so she can get her bearings. Such a songbird, she must not wear out her voice so early!”</p>
<p>Tessa smiles again, although this time it looks distinctly forced. She makes a little curtsy that is unfairly charming, in Morgan’s opinion, and then leans up and presses a quick kiss to Patch’s cheek. She waves quickly to the crowd and then slips behind the curtain, leaving Patch to nod regally to the crowd and resume his place before the band, which promptly heads into a rollicking jazz number.</p>
<p>It is at this point that Morgan becomes aware that Mitch is practically bouncing up and down in front of him, trying to get his attention.</p>
<p>“What?!” Morgan snaps, mostly to get Mitch to stop. Thank God, it works.</p>
<p>“What is <em>with</em> you?” Mitch says, annoyed. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past five minutes and you haven’t even <em>looked</em> at me. Why do you keep staring at that girl?”</p>
<p>Morgan shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Who is she?”</p>
<p>Mitch shrugs. “I dunno... it’s like Patch says, she’s a new singer out of New York. Pretty. But I like Doris better.”</p>
<p>Morgan reflects for a moment that being nineteen does not excuse being stupid.</p>
<p>“What did you need from me?” he asks patiently. Mitch, who is busy picking a thread out of the sleeve of his truly hideous plaid suit, looks up with a bemused expression.</p>
<p>“What... oh!” The bemused expression morphs into one of delighted achievement. “I wanted to know what you were doing over here. And why you had that look on your face. And I was supposed to tell you that there’s going to be a raid sometime tonight, Keefe thinks, so you’re to be prepared.”</p>
<p>Morgan takes a moment to assimilate all of that, and then zeroes in on the important part.</p>
<p>“What time?”</p>
<p>Mitch is back to the thread and not paying the least bit of attention.</p>
<p>“Mitch! What time is the raid supposed to be?”</p>
<p>“Oh, sometime after 1:00 AM,” Mitch answers vaguely, and gives up on the thread. “What time is it now, anyway?”</p>
<p>Morgan checks his pocket watch, the one his father gave him when he left home, and feels a stab of panic in his gut.</p>
<p>“<em>Hell</em>,” he spits. “It’s 12:45. We have to get people ready to move. Go tell Patch to be ready to pack up, and fast.”</p>
<p>He starts moving for backstage, only pausing to make sure Mitch is accomplishing his assigned task. Marner’s a good kid, and smart, and he’ll do well for himself, but he’s a bit young yet, and sometimes his attention wanders.</p>
<p>He moves backstage fast, looking for the new girl. Surely someone’s told her that there might be a raid at any point, but he’s still a little worried. It’s one thing to hear about it, and another thing entirely to experience it. He remembers his first raid very well, and not just because a member of Chicago’s finest nearly broke his nose that night. It’s terrifying, and all the more so if you’re a tiny woman instead of a six-foot-one-inch bruiser. He doesn’t want to think of what could happen to someone her size without protection.</p>
<p>Marie steps in his way, frowning, the second he opens the door to the backstage dressing area.</p>
<p>“What is it?” she asks, a frown working between her perfect brows. “Are they here already? I did not hear anything.”</p>
<p>He shakes his head.</p>
<p>“They’re about to be here,” he says, and Marie relaxes a little. “Best to get the girls ready to go, all right?”</p>
<p>She nods and turns to warn the dancers and chorus girls. They’re old pros, most of them, and they quickly slip into coats and sensible walking shoes without any fanfare, stowing what they can of their personal effects into shoeboxes and cubbyholes.</p>
<p>He slips down the row of girls, smiling and nodding as they greet him. His mind is zeroed in on the new girl, the singer.</p>
<p>He finds her rather abruptly when she comes out of the little powder room at the end of the dressing area. In fact, she nearly runs into him and comes dangerously near losing her balance, so he’s forced to catch her by the elbows to keep her from toppling into him.</p>
<p>“Oh!” she says, taken aback, and he’s about to let her go and apologise, but then she looks up into his face and he’s lost. Completely, utterly lost. It’s just green, a sea of vivid green and thick black lashes and those red lips parted just a little, just enough to drive someone wild, and he’s losing his mind. He’s standing in a dressing room in a speakeasy with half of Chicago’s police force about to come bursting through the door at any moment, and he can’t remember his own name.</p>
<p>She solves his dilemma by trying to wriggle her elbows out of his hands, unsuccessfully. The movement recalls him to himself, at least a little.</p>
<p>“I... I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, flustered, and lets go of her abruptly. She staggers backwards and regains her balance, then gives him a look that’s part confusion, part annoyance.</p>
<p>“Can I help you, Mr…” She pauses, and he still can’t think of words, and how they go together. Thinking is very difficult right now, given that he’s close enough to smell her perfume.</p>
<p>“Rielly. Morgan Rielly. I’m security. One of the bouncers. Here, at the club. I...umm...there’s going to be a raid,” he blurts out. There. That’s a whole sentence. He feels rather proud of himself for a moment, until her eyes go huge.</p>
<p>“A <em>raid?</em>”</p>
<p>“Well... yes.” It occurs to him that perhaps he should be getting her out the door, given that the last of the chorus girls are filing out, but he’s afraid to touch her again lest she think that he’s the sort of man who gets fresh with a woman he doesn’t even know. “It’s a speakeasy, we get raided. A lot. Several nights a week.”</p>
<p>One of Tessa Virtue’s eyebrows shoots up. Given that she’s most decidedly not happy about the current situation, he’s not sure why that look is so seductive.</p>
<p>“You get raids <em>multiple</em> nights a week?” she says in a scandalised tone of voice. “Mr. Keefe did <em>not</em> mention that in his contract.”</p>
<p>Morgan stifles a chuckle at the idea of Sheldon Keefe putting a clause in her contract specifying the numbers of raids to expect per week, and instead focuses on gently steering her towards the door. He decides to start with her coat, or at least the coat he assumes is hers because it’s the only one left on the hooks. It’s cherry red, and somehow that seems incredibly fitting for her.</p>
<p>“Yes, well, it...umm...it happens,” he says, and drapes the coat about her shoulders with his best attempt at genteel manners. “Do you have another pair of shoes, by any chance?”</p>
<p>She frowns at him. “Yes, they’re in my bag. Why, do I need to change my shoes?”</p>
<p>He shrugs. “You can run in those,” he gestures to the absurd little high heels she’s wearing, “but I don’t think it’ll be very comfortable. Most of the girls change into street shoes when there’s a raid.”</p>
<p>She looks more bemused than ever.</p>
<p>“Am I going somewhere?”</p>
<p>He abruptly realises that she doesn’t understand she has to leave. He cocks an ear towards the door — nothing yet, which means that it’s coming soon. Very soon.</p>
<p>“Yes, Miss...Virtue,” he says, tripping up over her name for a moment like a lunkhead. “You don’t want to be here when the police burst in. I don’t think they’d hurt you, but they can be a bit rough with the girls sometimes, and I don’t want you - ”</p>
<p>He breaks off at the horror on her face.</p>
<p>“Miss Virtue? Are you all right?”</p>
<p>She’s turned away, but when she turns back around, her face is a calm mask.</p>
<p>“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” she says, but her breathing is fast, and her lips are trembling a little with the effort of holding herself together. “I just… in New York, we had an understanding with the police. They certainly never came into the club and put hands on the entertainers.”</p>
<p>“It’s a bit rougher here, I’m afraid,” he says, and puts a hand gently on her shoulder, mostly to comfort her. “But I’ll stay with you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”</p>
<p>She presses her lips together tightly. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, thank you,” she says stiffly. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”</p>
<p>He’s about to argue with her when he hears the distinctive sound of glass breaking and voices raised in anger and pain. There’s no time left — they have to go, and go <em>now</em>.</p>
<p>“They’re here,” he says, and her face drains of colour. “We have to go. Come on.”</p>
<p>Without thinking, he grabs her hand and tugs her towards the door. He looks out into the dingy little hallway, and sees nothing. Quickly, he leads her down the hall to the back exit and unlocks it, just as the sound of booted feet and thudding nightclubs resounds behind them. As fast as he can, he has them through the door and out into the freezing night. He locks the door behind him to buy them a few minutes if they need it, and then they’re both sprinting down the street, hand in hand like children. By the time they stop, they’re nearly three blocks away. She’s breathing hard, deep gasps that stream out of her mouth into clouds of white fog that hang in front of her face before they disperse.</p>
<p>“Are you all right?” he manages. He’s a little winded too, but not nearly as much as she is. He supposes she doesn’t do much running, as a rule. And it must be difficult to run in a dress and high heels and whatever is it she has on underneath. <em>Not</em> that he needs to be thinking about her… underneath.</p>
<p>She nods, still fighting for air, and leans into him, one small hand clutching his sleeve. He instinctively puts his other arm around her, sharing the warmth of his body, sheltering her. He bends his head a little, and the scent of her hair is all he can smell, something like attar of roses and spices, something impossibly alluring. Somehow she seems so little this close to him, even in her heels. She’s shivering, and he suddenly wants very much to cuddle her close to him and keep her warm. He’s never felt this protective of a woman he barely knows. It bewilders him a bit.</p>
<p>“I’m… I’m fine,” she manages, the words muffled by his coat. “Just… cold. And I don’t usually have to run like that.”</p>
<p>He smiles a little. “I thought as much. Do you want my coat? It’s frigid out here.”</p>
<p>She shivers hard. “No, I’m...I’m all right.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t believe it for a moment, but he doesn’t think he has the right to argue with her yet. Perhaps if they get to know each other a bit better.</p>
<p>“What do we do now?” she asks. It sounds a bit plaintive, and it makes him want to cuddle her even more.</p>
<p>“Well,” he says, musing, “we can’t very well go back, they’re still busy arresting people. They’ll be there for another hour, at least. So I suppose I could walk you home. Or take you for a cup of coffee, whichever you prefer.”</p>
<p>She stands there for a moment, thinking, her slim fingers moving a bit on his sleeve, tracing little patterns.</p>
<p>“I suppose I could go for a cup of coffee,” she says finally. “But I… I think I left my bag back there, and I haven’t any - ”</p>
<p>She stops, looking very embarrassed, and he quickly steps in.</p>
<p>“No, no, I invited you, I’ll get the coffee,” he says, and she smiles in relief. “Besides, you just got here — I have to welcome you to Chicago, right?”</p>
<p>She actually giggles a little at that, which gives him courage.</p>
<p>“There’s a little diner that’s open twenty-four hours just around the corner. It’s warm, and the coffee’s not terrible. Neither are the doughnuts, for that matter. What do you think?”</p>
<p>She smiles a little and nods, and he offers her his arm. He has to walk slowly to match her shorter stride, but he doesn’t mind at all. She’s still shivering a bit, and he just wants to get her inside where she can warm up some.</p>
<p>“Do you do this for all the new girls?” she asks suddenly, and he looks down at her in surprise. She cocks her eyebrow at him. “Personally escort them to safety from raids, take them to get coffee? Is this your big move?”</p>
<p>He almost laughs aloud at the idea that he has moves at all, let alone some sort of big move, but he manages to hold it in.</p>
<p>“It is definitely not,” he says, and she smiles at him widely. It’s a lovely smile, sweet as honey, hinting at delightful secrets she’s not quite ready to divulge. A man could be entranced by that smile.</p>
<p>“So I’m special, then?” she teases, and the realisation that she might be flirting with him hits somewhere deep in his gut. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself for a moment.</p>
<p>“You are,” he says gravely, and flushes when he realises how sombre he sounds just now. “You must be.”</p>
<p>She laughs a little, and his heart twists. God, this is what it must be like, meeting a woman that fulfills every dream you’ve ever had but that you know you’ll never be good enough for, he thinks desperately.</p>
<p>“You’re very kind,” she murmurs, and then she stops. “Is this it?”</p>
<p>He’s still dealing with the ramifications of her laugh. “Is what it?”</p>
<p>She points up at the sign over their heads. “Is this the diner?”</p>
<p>He looks up in a daze. “Oh. Yes. Yes, it is. Shall we…?”</p>
<p>He holds the door open and lets her in ahead of him, stepping into the sugary warmth of the restaurant with a shiver of pure delight. This is one of his favourite places in the city.</p>
<p>As he watches, she pivots on her heel and stares at the menu with a very serious expression.</p>
<p>“Do you recommend anything in particular?” she asks, and he tries hard to focus.</p>
<p>“Umm… the cherry pie is good,” he offers. She nods decisively and heads up to the counter to order. Halfway there, she turns back.</p>
<p>“I forgot to ask,” she says. “Did you want anything?”</p>
<p>It occurs to him that not only should he be ordering something, but he also offered to pay, and perhaps he should get his ass in gear.</p>
<p>“Yes, uh, yeah, I’ll come with you,” he stammers, and lets her lead the way. He stands behind her while she orders, watches her smile at the boy behind the counter and practically make the kid swoon. Morgan can understand where the boy’s coming from.</p>
<p>When he’s paid for them both, she takes her cup of coffee and slice of pie and looks over her shoulder at him.</p>
<p>“Want to go sit by the window?”</p>
<p>He nods, hefting his own two slices in one hand. (He really, <em>really</em> likes their cherry pie. It’s almost as good as his mother’s, and that’s going some.)</p>
<p>They settle in across from each other next to the fogged glass of the window. Outside, a street lamp makes an anemic circle of light on the sidewalk, and a gust of wind pushes a tattered newspaper and some cigarette butts a few feet down the pavement. It looks bleak, freezing, and he’s grateful to be warm inside, with Tessa’s big green eyes staring at him over the rim of her coffee cup.</p>
<p>“So… how long have you been in Chicago?” he asks. It’s the first question that comes to mind, and seems harmless enough. She gives him a guarded look though, as if she’s not sure how much she should say.</p>
<p>“About a week,” she says carefully. “I moved into a boarding house on 33rd Monday last.”</p>
<p>He thinks for a minute, and then frowns at her.</p>
<p>“Over by Groveland Park?”</p>
<p>She nods and takes a bite of her cherry pie. Her eyebrows go up in what seems to be pleased surprise.</p>
<p>“You were right! This is excellent,” she says, but his mind is on what she just said.</p>
<p>“That’s… not the best neighbourhood,” he says slowly. That’s a euphemism at best — he’s been down there, in the tenement houses where entire families are crammed twelve or fourteen to a room. It’s not safe at all, and he has no earthly clue why Keefe hasn’t put her up in a better part of town.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s not too bad,” she says airily. “I have two little rooms, and a stove, and the woman who runs the house has been quite pleasant so far. I can’t say much for her meals, but I can manage eggs and toast on my own well enough.”</p>
<p>He frowns again. No wonder she’s so tiny.</p>
<p>“You can’t survive just on eggs and toast, Miss Virtue.”</p>
<p>She grins at him, an unexpected, cheeky grin.</p>
<p>“Are you offering to feed me, then?”</p>
<p>His eyes pop wide open as his brain processes the fact that it sounds remarkably like she’s flirting. Again. With him.</p>
<p>“Well…” he says cautiously, painfully aware that his ears and neck are turning an unbecoming shade of pink, “I can’t cook much, but I do know most of the good places to eat in this area. So… if you’re ever hungry, I could maybe point you in the right direction.”</p>
<p>The grin softens into a smile, one that crinkles the corners of her eyes.</p>
<p>“I’d like that,” she says, and takes another bite of her pie. There’s a tiny crumb that ends up on her lower lip, and she darts her tongue out to lick it away. The sight is unfairly arousing, especially since she clearly doesn’t mean for it to be deliberately seductive, and Morgan shifts in his seat, willing his body to behave. For God’s sake, he lectures himself sternly, he barely knows this girl, and he certainly doesn’t need to be having inappropriate fantasies about that pink tongue darting out to lick… other things. His mama raised him better than that.</p>
<p>He shifts again and tries to think of something unpleasant… the slaughterhouse next to that back-alley brewery they’d gone to last week, for instance. That’s disgusting enough to ward away even the slightest hint of desire.</p>
<p>By the time he comes back to himself, she’s staring at him expectantly, and he’s completely lost.</p>
<p>“Sorry, what did you say?” he says after a moment, since she seems to be waiting on him to reply. “I… my apologies, I just… I was remembering something from the other day, and… ”</p>
<p>She shrugs a little.</p>
<p>“I was just asking what the job is like. And how long you’ve been doing it.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” He gathers his thoughts from where they’d been wandering. “Umm… about three years? Ever since the amendment was ratified, you know. My brother had come home from the war, and he was ready to settle down and marry his fiancée, and so Ma and Dad didn’t need me quite so much around the place. I came up here looking for a factory job, and fell in with John and Patty one night at a bar, and one thing led to another. So… I ended up working for Keefe.”</p>
<p>She nods, her lips pursed a little like she’s thinking.</p>
<p>“Do you like it?”</p>
<p>He pauses a moment to think.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I do,” he says, because really, it’s a lot better than some jobs he can think of. “The hours aren’t bad, the pay is decent, and the guys and me… it’s like having a lot of brothers, is the closest way I can think of to describe it. There’s a lot of loyalty in an operation like ours… has to be, or the whole thing falls apart. That’s probably my favourite part, really, knowing they have my back and I have theirs.”</p>
<p>She smiles a little.</p>
<p>“It’s dangerous, though, isn’t it? What you all do? Bootlegging, and working as a bouncer… it can’t be very safe.”</p>
<p>She sounds a little concerned, and his heart speeds up a bit at the idea of pretty Tessa Virtue, worrying over his safety.</p>
<p>“Yes, a little, I suppose,” he says, as nonchalant as he can afford to be. It’s very important all of a sudden that she believe he has never once in the entirety of his life feared physical danger. “But it’s all part of the job. We get into dust-ups with rival bootleggers sometimes, or the police, but no one’s died yet.”</p>
<p>Her eyes get huge, and he regrets his bravado a bit.</p>
<p>“<em>Yet?</em>”</p>
<p>She looks so shocked that he reaches out from sheer instinct to comfort her, taking one of her small hands in his.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, Miss Virtue, we’re very careful.” He speaks softly, trying to reassure her, but she shivers a little nonetheless. “You’re safe here. I promise. We’ll look out for you.”</p>
<p>Her lips curve upwards a little, but she doesn’t seem very heartened.</p>
<p>“I just don’t want to think about someone beating you with a nightclub, or shooting at you,” she says, a little line forming between her brows as she looks down at his hand. “I’m not worried so much about myself, I’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>He refrains, with great effort, from pointing out that she is tiny and extremely beautiful and should probably have protection on the streets of Chicago at all times. He doesn’t want to frighten her.</p>
<p>“So will we,” he tells her, still holding her hand even though he feels a bit like he’s taking liberties. Her skin is so soft, and he doesn’t want to let go. “It’s our job to take some risks, you know. But we always look out for the girls. No one ever dares lay a hand on any of the girls who work for the Clover Leaf.”</p>
<p>She turns her hand up and gives his fingers a quick squeeze. He feels his blush deepen, and he tries to carefully pull his hand away. He doesn’t want her to think he’s being too bold. She doesn’t take the hint, though, and he’s rather pleased that she hasn’t let go yet.</p>
<p>“Mr. Keefe was very clear on that point,” she says, blushing a little. “He said when he hired me that his, umm, <em>boys</em> would make sure of my personal safety.”</p>
<p>“We will,” he says, hoping that she truly believes him. He wants to convey that she’s safe with him, that he takes seriously his duty to protect her, not just as part of his job but as part of his responsibility as a gentleman. “We wouldn’t let any harm come to you.”</p>
<p>She smiles, that sweet, luminous smile that makes his chest tighten a little.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she murmurs, and then she looks down at their hands, joined on the scarred wood of the restaurant table, and she flushes a glorious pink and tugs her hand away. She looks vaguely scandalised, and he searches quickly for a topic of conversation to distract her, lest she decide that he’s not fit company for her.</p>
<p>“So what made you choose Chicago over New York? I would think a lot of people do it the other way around.”</p>
<p>He realises immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. She goes very still, and then she bites her lips together, her eyes darting to her lap in a panicky movement that reminds him of a frightened bird.</p>
<p>“I… I decided it was just time to leave,” she says in a very quiet voice. “Things were… not going particularly well. And I wanted a change of scenery.”</p>
<p>He can’t imagine what could have happened to make her look like this. He doesn’t really want to imagine it, he realises. He just wants to make the tension in her body and the fear in her eyes disappear.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he replies, for lack of anything better to say. “That makes sense. It’s why I left the farm, really.”</p>
<p>She looks up at that, a polite smile on her face. It’s a lacklustre thing compared to the smile he’s already come to know, but at least it’s something.</p>
<p>“You worked on a farm?” she asks. She still sounds a bit strained.</p>
<p>“Grew up on one,” he tells her, and takes a sip of his coffee. “It’s about two hours south of here — just a little farming community, nothing big. A church, a school, a general store. It was a good way to grow up.”</p>
<p>She tilts her head to the side just a bit, looking at him. Her eyes are very warm.</p>
<p>“I grew up in Toronto,” she says quietly. “It wasn’t a bad way to grow up either. My father’s a lawyer there. My mother sings in the church choir and chairs the Ladies’ Aid society. And I have one sister… her name’s Jordan.”</p>
<p>He can’t help it — it’s such an unusual name. His brows furrows a little before he manages to straighten it back out, and her eyes start to dance.</p>
<p>“I know, I know, it’s an odd name for a girl,” she says, hiding her smile in her coffee cup. “My grandmother on my mother’s side wanted to name her… after the Jordan River. You know, the one in the Bible.”</p>
<p>Morgan nods, years of attendance at the Methodist Sunday school serving him in good stead. Still, he’s curious.</p>
<p>“The Jordan River?”</p>
<p>“She said that when the Israelites crossed the Jordan River, it meant that good things were ahead of them. That they were going to a land filled with milk and honey. So she said that Jordan being born meant good things for our family, too.”</p>
<p>He smiles a little.</p>
<p>“That’s lovely,” he says, and means it. “Unusual, but lovely. Although the whole Battle of Jericho thing might put a dent in your grandmother’s theory.”</p>
<p>Tessa raises an eyebrow at him, faintly mocking.</p>
<p>“My, but you <em>did</em> listen in Sunday school. Are you sure a good church-going boy like you ought to be out at all hours with a nightclub singer after a bar raid?”</p>
<p>He coughs a bit, mostly out of embarrassment. Part of him is remembering how disappointed his mother is that he’s not living the wholesome farmer’s life she always wanted for him. Part of him doesn’t want Tessa to think he’s a square.</p>
<p>“I’m doing fine, thanks,” he mutters, and runs his hand through his hair for lack of anything better to do. “But you… did you always want to be a singer?”</p>
<p>There, he thinks with relief. Better to turn the tables on her than get into why his mother is still holding out hope in her weekly letter than he’ll leave his life of sin behind and settle down with a nice girl on the back forty his father set aside for him when he turned 21.</p>
<p>Tessa’s lips curve a little, but it’s too sad to be a smile.</p>
<p>“I always sang, even when I was little,” she says, looking down, running her thumbnail along the grain of the wood in the tabletop. “My mother says I was her little lark — always up at the crack of dawn, always singing. They had me in the church choir by the time I was five, I think.”</p>
<p>“You must have been good,” he says softly. “Did you take lessons?”</p>
<p>“Oh yes, of course. Mama made sure I had the best teachers in Toronto. I learned all the classics, although I don’t have enough range to really sing opera. Mama wanted me to go train at the Toronto Royal Conservatory… the Mendelssohn choir. And then… ”</p>
<p>She trails off, her eyes going hazy.</p>
<p>“And then?” he prompts.</p>
<p>“And then… I met Richard,” she says simply, and when she looks back up, she looks almost lost, childlike. “And everything changed.”</p>
<p>Morgan doesn’t know quite why, but the way she says the name makes something unpleasant slither up his spine.</p>
<p>“Richard?”</p>
<p>Her lips tremble a little — like she’s trying to smile reflexively, because it’s the polite thing to do, but she can’t quite manage it. It’s difficult to watch.</p>
<p>“The manager of the Canary in New York. He came to Toronto to scout out talent five years ago, and he came to a concert that my music teacher had arranged. Richard had a lot of connections. He could get in anywhere, he used to say — you just had to know the right people.”</p>
<p>“So he heard you sing then?” Somehow the question feels more fraught than it should, and Morgan doesn’t know why.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>She’s silent for a moment, and then she starts fiddling with the sleeve of her dress. It’s a simple thing, some kind of soft grey material, but it suits her. She’s pressing her thumbnail into the fabric, creasing it into tiny folds, and then letting it go and starting all over again. He watches her do it in horrified fascination. She doesn’t want to tell him this story, he can see that, and he’s not sure he wants to hear it. There is something wrong here, something connected with this man… Richard, her former manager. He finds himself tensing in his seat, even as she takes a deep breath and starts talking again.</p>
<p>“He was at the concert. He heard me sing… heard everyone sing, really, but I was the one he wanted. He talked to my music teacher, said that he had connections in New York, that he could get me professional work. That’s how he got invited to the reception afterwards.”</p>
<p>She pauses again, then looks down at her sleeve and absently smooths out the material with her fingers.</p>
<p>“He came to find me outside. I was standing in the porte-cochere, getting a breath of air. It was hot inside, all the flowers and the people, everyone talking. So I stepped outside, and he followed me. He told me how beautifully I sang. He told me who he was, that he managed a nightclub. He said he had a job for me the next day if I wanted it. He was…”</p>
<p>She breaks off with a little disbelieving laugh.</p>
<p>“He was so very good at talking people into things. He spun this world for me, this wonderful world of music and dancing and exciting new things. It sounded so lovely. And so… I broke my mama’s heart and packed my things and left with him. And I haven’t been back home since.”</p>
<p>When she closes her eyes tightly, Morgan’s heart breaks a little for her. She looks so small and so lonely, sitting there at three in the morning in her simple grey dress, her hands clasped in front of her, a stranger drinking coffee with a man she barely knows. This wasn’t the way her life was supposed to go, he’s sure of it.</p>
<p>“So you worked for him? In New York?” he asks carefully, not wanting to pry. She opens her eyes at the sound of his voice, and he can see her walls come up, all the softness and vulnerability of the previous moment gone.</p>
<p>“Yes, for five years,” she says calmly. “It was an amazing professional experience, but of course, after a while, one wants to explore new venues. And I’d become rather tired of New York, to be honest.”</p>
<p>Morgan fights the urge to raise an eyebrow. He’s only been a few times, but he’s not sure how anyone gets tired of New York City.</p>
<p>“At any rate, I decided I’d had enough, so here I am,” she says briskly, and he can tell there will be no further confidences tonight. “I didn’t mean to get so… personal, back there. Forgive me.”</p>
<p>“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, his voice gentle. “I like getting to know people’s stories. Truly.”</p>
<p>She gives him a small smile. “You’re very kind, Mr. Rielly. Thank you. But… it’s getting late, and I don’t want to keep you.”</p>
<p>She looks down at her wrist, which is bare, and frowns.</p>
<p>“I don’t even know what time it is,” she admits. “But it’s got to be past two a.m.”</p>
<p>He looks at his watch. It’s a quarter past three, but he’d never have noticed on his own. He thinks that he could sit here and talk to her all night and never realise time had passed.</p>
<p>“Past three, actually,” he says easily. “I suppose we’d best get you home. It’s late, and you’ve had quite the night. A lot of excitement for your first performance at the Leaf.”</p>
<p>She nods and pushes back her plate. She’s reaching for her coat, but he’s too quick for her, darting around the table to snap it up and hold it for her. She laughs a little as he adjust the collar for her.</p>
<p>“You’re awfully quick on your feet for…” she stops short in embarrassment, and he chuckles.</p>
<p>“For a man my size, you mean?”</p>
<p>She whirls around, looking extremely mortified.</p>
<p>“I… I didn’t mean to say… that is, I…” she stammers, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright at her. She’s adorable when she’s flustered like this.</p>
<p>“It’s all right, Miss Virtue,” he says, grabbing his own coat across the table and shrugging it on. “I’ve been fairly big most of my life, it won’t hurt my feelings.”</p>
<p>She still looks abashed. “It was still unpardonably rude,” she says in dismay.</p>
<p>“I’m more than happy to pardon it,” he assures her, and she sighs a little.</p>
<p>“You’re very kind, Mr. Rielly,” she says earnestly, looking up at him through those long dark lashes. “If you’re going to be this kind, perhaps you really should call me Tessa. Miss Virtue seems terribly formal, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>He swallows hard.</p>
<p>“Tessa, then,” he says softly. “But if that’s the way it’s to be, you can’t call me Mr. Rielly. It’s only fair that we’re both informal, you know.”</p>
<p>“Morgan,” she says, and he can’t help but admit that his given name sounds right somehow, coming out of her mouth. “I like that. It’s a good name.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says, and offers her his arm as they go to leave. “My mother will be pleased to hear it.”</p>
<p>She takes his arm, pressing close against him as they exit the little café and the icy wind hits them. He steers them down the street to the intersection and raises two fingers for a taxi. It’s the middle of the night, but there’s still enough traffic to and from the nightclub district that he’s able to get one within a few minutes. He’s sure as hell not having her walk from here all the way over to 33rd, not after the night she’s had.</p>
<p>“Do you have anything you need from the club, or do you want to just go back to your place?” he asks as they climb in, and her eyes go huge again.</p>
<p>“I… Morgan… Mr. Rielly, I don’t know what you assumed, but I… ”</p>
<p>He’s incredibly confused for a moment, and then he realises what’s going on. She thinks he’s propositioning her, inviting himself up for the night. He can almost feel the burn of shame rise from his collar to his hairline.</p>
<p>“No, no!” he half-shouts, and she shrinks away in alarm. “I… oh God, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t assuming… that is, I wouldn’t dare to think that… I’m not inviting myself in, if that’s what you were thinking. I’m terribly sorry for making it sound that way. I would never… I just wanted to see you home safe, that’s all. I swear to you.”</p>
<p>She relaxes back into the seat, slumping into the cushions in relief.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m so glad,” she says, which stings a bit, but he can’t very well blame her. “I don’t mean… it’s just that I don’t know you very well yet, and I was afraid that… ”</p>
<p>He shakes his head quickly, trying to assuage her fears. Of course she was afraid, he realises in a burst of guilt — here she was, new to the city, stranded in a part of town she doesn’t know, with a man easily twice her size who appeared to be inviting himself into her bed. She had every right to be terrified.</p>
<p>“I would never do that,” he promises quietly, holding her eyes with his own. “Tessa. I would never do that, to you or any woman. I would never presume that.”</p>
<p>She nods, one hand fiddling with a button on her coat.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t have assumed the worst of you,” she says, and he shakes his head fiercely.</p>
<p>“You had every right — ” he starts, when the driver cuts in.</p>
<p>“You two gonna talk all night, or one of you want to tell me where to drive?” he snaps, and Tessa looks mortified.</p>
<p>“33rd and Michigan,” she says in a small voice. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>The driver grunts in response, and then it’s silent for a bit, just the faint whine of his engine and a suspicious clunk when he hits the brakes. After a few blocks, Tessa looks over, and then shocks the hell out of Morgan by placing her hand on his upper arm.</p>
<p>“I really am sorry,” she says, so quietly he can barely hear her. “You’ve been a perfect gentleman all evening, and I should never have thought you’d do something so…”</p>
<p>“Tessa,” he starts, and then winces. Perhaps he’s lost the right to call her that. “Miss Virtue. I don’t blame you at all. You hardly know me, after all, and you were absolutely right to be cautious. Please don’t feel badly about it.”</p>
<p>She blinks at him, looking a bit lost all of a sudden.</p>
<p>“You’re so very sweet,” she says in a choked voice. “Thank you. And don’t stop calling me Tessa, please. I… I rather like it.”</p>
<p>“Then I will do it as long as you like,” he says in a low voice. She smiles, a bit tremulously, and takes her hand away. He feels the loss of its warmth on his sleeve immediately, and wishes very much she’d put it back.</p>
<p>They ride along in a companionable silence for the rest of the drive. She looks like she’s getting sleepy, and he hopes her boarding house isn’t that much farther away. She has to be exhausted — it’s getting on four o’clock in the morning now, and she’s had a very busy night. In an effort not to stare, he looks out the window for a bit, into the icy dark of early morning. His dad will be getting up soon, he realises, headed out to feed and milk, and his mom will be brewing the coffee, starting some ham to fry, probably sliding a few eggs onto the skillet. The warmth of the homeplace wraps him up, as memories do, soothing him and filling him with an aching nostalgia all at the same time.</p>
<p>When he looks over again, Tessa is asleep. Her head is nestled against the back of the seat, her whole body relaxed, one hand turned up, lying on the seat between the two of them. She’s unfairly adorable when asleep, he thinks unwillingly, with a stray wisp of hair falling over her cheek and her mouth relaxed into a sweetly solemn curve. He hates to wake her up.</p>
<p>All too soon, though, the driver pulls up and announces, rather unnecessarily, “This is it. That’ll be seven dollars.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got another trip after this, you might as well wait,” Morgan tells him.</p>
<p>“Seven dollars, and <em>then</em> I’ll wait,” the cabbie informs him, and then launches into a hacking sound that makes it sound like he’s trying to cough up a live clam. Morgan doesn’t even bother arguing that the fare is at least two dollars over the going rate. Not worth it, with a Chicago hack. Sighing, he forks over seven bucks and then turns to the task of waking Tessa, which turns out to be significantly more difficult than one would think.</p>
<p>“Tessa?” he tries, gently shaking her arm. She frowns darkly and mumbles something that sounds rather suspiciously like g’way, then snuggles deeper into the back seat cushions.</p>
<p>“Tessa, we’re here,” he tries again. She pouts.</p>
<p>“Shhhh,” she mumbles, waving one hand limply in his direction. “M’sleeping.”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, I can see that,” he says, trying to keep his composure while the cab driver clears his throat loudly, obviously eager to be on his way. “But you’re home now, and you have to get out. Come on.”</p>
<p>“Noooo,” she protests as he very carefully drags her into an upright position. “Don’t wanna… ’m too tired… wanna sleep.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know, and you can go back to sleep just as soon as I get you upstairs,” Morgan says with as much patience as he can muster. He turns to the cabbie, whose throat-clearing has become louder and more obnoxious. “Yes, I can <em>hear</em> you, I’m working on it, thank you.”</p>
<p>He backs out of the cab and starts tugging Tessa towards him across the seat. She opens both eyes at this and glares fiercely at him.</p>
<p>“I don’t <em>like</em> you,” she announces as he tugs her out of the cab. “Ooohhhh, it’s so cold. Why did you wake me up?”</p>
<p>“Because we’re at your boarding house,” he tells her. “And this nice gentleman has to keep going.”</p>
<p>He waves cheerfully at the cabbie, just to annoy him, and then steers Tessa up the walk, trying to help her avoid the icy patches.</p>
<p>“Is there a latch-key?” he asks, and she fumbles in her coat pocket until she produces it. She has a bit of trouble getting it in the lock, as bleary as she is, so finally she shoves it at him and frowns, which he takes as an indication that he ought to do it for her. Once they get the door open, she takes the key back and just stares at him.</p>
<p>“Are you all right from here? I can walk you in if you want,” he offers, and she shakes her head, eyes still heavy with sleep.</p>
<p>“No, I’m all right,” she says, sounding a bit more lucid. “It’s just up the stairs. I’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>He nods. “Well… welcome to Chicago. Sorry your first night was so wild. Although I can’t promise it’ll be the only one.”</p>
<p>She smiles a little at that.</p>
<p>“I’m sure it won’t be,” she says softly. “Thank you… for looking out for me, and for the coffee, and… well, everything. And I’m sorry I said I didn’t like you.”</p>
<p>He tries his best to look dramatically wounded.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure I’ll ever recover, to tell you the truth.”</p>
<p>She lays her hand on his sleeve, looking up at him softly, and he feels a strange fluttering in his chest.</p>
<p>“Oh, but you have to, Morgan Rielly,” she says, and then fights back a yawn. “Who else will rescue me from the police and then ply me with cherry pie?”</p>
<p>He can’t argue with that.</p>
<p>“All right, then, I guess I’ll stick around,” he tells her. “Good night, Tessa. Get some sleep. In a bed this time.”</p>
<p>She grins and yawns widely, covering her mouth with her hand.</p>
<p>“Mmmph. G’night, Rielly,” she says. “Go on, I’ll lock the door after you’re out.”</p>
<p>He nods and slips out the door, waiting to hear the sound of the bolt shot home as she turns the lock. He walks down the porch steps, and then turns and waits until he sees a light flicker on upstairs. Good — she’s in for the night, and safe, and he can get in his cab and go home.</p>
<p>They go past factories already rumbling to life and tenement houses lit up at 4:30 AM in preparation for the 5:00 shift, and the whole time Morgan isn’t seeing the city he’s come to love. He’s lost in daydreams of dark hair that smells like roses and a voice that sounds like crying alone in the dead of night, thoughts of green eyes and delicate fingers, pleating little folds of grey fabric over and over again.</p>
<p>She’s bewitched him, he thinks in disbelief as he pays his fare and lets himself into his apartment. He shivers as he takes off his coat and shoes in the dark and pads over to the little lamp he keeps at his bedside. He switches it on and digs behind his pillow for his pajamas.</p>
<p>He’s not going to think of Tessa Virtue for whatever is left of the night. He’s going to brush his teeth, and go to bed, and sleep, like a sensible human being. He’s not going to spend any of his precious time off mooning over a woman who clearly has a past she doesn’t want to talk about and stories she doesn’t want anyone else to know. Thinking of her like that will end up nowhere good.</p>
<p>But when he finally clambers into bed and switches off his lamp, the last cogent thought he has before succumbing to sleep is of her smile, the slow sweet one that spreads across her face when she’s pleased about something, and even in his state of exhaustion, he knows this is not good.</p>
<p>He has to put her out of his mind before it’s too late.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The closest I could get to how I wanted Tessa to sound in this chapter is this Rosemary Clooney cover of "What'll I Do." Clooney's got that lovely, deep, rich alto sound, and the instrumentation is very simple and restrained. She brings out the pathos of the song by keeping it simple, and the bandleader resisted the urge to add lots of unnecessary dips and trills, so...pretty much perfect. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ffcy3jg14yc">What'll I Do</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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